Firstborn Son
by LizBee
Summary: The birth of Holmes's first son raises an ugly shadow.


**Title**: First-born Son  
**Author**: LizBee  
**Summary**: The birth of Holmes's son raises an ugly shadow.  
**Rated**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: Um. Babies. Ugly bigotry.  
**Fandom**: Mary Russell  
**Spoilers**: Nothing, really.  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine. No profit. Now read on.  
**Notes**: Sequel to "The Cleverness of Women" and related to the rest, although it could stand alone if you find the whole linked universe unbearably tedious. Thanks to Chana, aka Story645, for a brief but informative lesson on Judaism. Any further errors are entirely my own.  
**Email**: elizabethbarr at Son  
by LizBee

Four days after the birth of Holmes's son, Mycroft said, "If Mary dies, will you raise the boy a Christian?"

Holmes occupied himself with his pipe for several minutes.

"Russell's death is by no means a foregone conclusion," he said. "Nor is the child's survival."

"But if--"

"Russell would expect her son to be raised a Jew. I expect she'll have specified as much in her will." At Mycroft's raised eyebrow he added, "She had a morbid fear that we would both be killed, leaving the boy an orphan. Understandable, I think, given her history."

Or perhaps she had simply feared a slow, ugly death in childbirth.

Holmes regarded his brother through a haze of pipe-smoke and fatigue and said, "I didn't think you harboured anti-Hebrew feelings, Mycroft."

"I don't. I suppose, taken individually, they may be better or worse than a member of any other race, but on the whole they seem good people and good citizens." Mycroft brooded into his port. "Nevertheless, it might not be -- prudent -- for your son to be known as a Jew. Others are not as liberal as I."

"That is their problem, surely. A passionate anti-Semite would regard a single drop of Jewish blood as enough to taint the boy. His mother is Jewish, therefore he is a Jew."

"But Sherlock, there's surely no need to draw attention to the fact. Would his mother want him to go through life as a virtual outcast? _She_ can pass for an Englishwoman. He might not."

"Then worrying about his religious upbringing will be fruitless," Holmes snapped. "As for what Russell would want, _she_ copes admirably well with prejudice, and would expect the same from her son."

"_Her_ son?" Mycroft echoed. "Really, Sherlock--"

"In any case," Holmes continued, ignoring his brother's interruption, "it's my understanding that Judaism places caveats against denying one's identity. As for which parent may claim possession of the boy, _I_ am not dying in a maternity ward." He bit down on the stem of his pipe, hard enough that it cracked. When he could speak again he said, "the work was entirely hers. Futile as it may be."

Mycroft gave him a long look, the kind of penetrating gaze that, even as a child, Holmes had learnt to dread.

"Why," said Mycroft, "do you go to so much effort to defend a child you're prepared to hate."

In the dim light, Holmes could see a fine hairline crack running down the stem of his pipe. He did not look at his brother.

"You go too far," he said.

"If the boy dies and Mary lives, will you try to have another?"

"No." And even this one attempt had been a grave mistake, he could see that now. "But if he lives," that tiny little scrap of humanity for whom even the most soft-hearted of nurses had no hope, "he'll be a Jew. As his mother wishes."

"Is that what you want?" Mycroft's tone was un-curious, because, Holmes thought, he had decided he already knew the answer.

"Irrelevant."

"You could insist."

"With Russell?" It occurred to Holmes for the first time that Mycroft's insight into Russell, and their marriage, was perhaps limited. Curious, to find the boundary of his brother's omniscience.

"It would be different if it was a daughter, of course, but a son--"

"I can assure you, nothing would change."

Mycroft's face was unreadable.

"I had hopes," he said slowly, "of picking my successor. Or, if time did not allow, of seeing some promising youngster into the service of the Crown, and setting events in motion for his eventual ascendence to my position, long after my death."

Holmes was silent.

"But I've never found the right person. Ironic, isn't it, that I spend years searching, in my way, and you stumble across yours as you hunt bees? I've never met an honest man with the potential. If only Mary were a man -- but she would never take the job, even if anyone could be persuaded to accept her. I'd hoped, with your son--"

"Thinking of founding an hereditary position?"

"I suppose it seems foolish."

"A trifle sentimental, perhaps. Dangerously so."

"They would never put a Jew in this job, Sherlock. It doesn't matter who his relatives are."

"Then it is they who must change. Not my son." Holmes stood up, ignoring the protests of his bones and muscles. What a fool he was, sixty-four-year-old father of an infant son. With Russell and the child, he would look like a doting grandfather paying a meddlesome visit to his daughter.

If Russell lived.

The absurd vision suddenly seemed much sweeter.

"I'm going to bed," he said. He'd gone days without sleep, surrounded by proud families while his wife and son hovered between life and death. The boy seemed not much larger than a puppy, bald and wizened like a caricature of a Buddhist monk, while Russell cried for her mother in languages that Holmes didn't speak.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, and if there was no apology in his tone, there was regret in his face, "you never told me the child's name."

Foolish. Forgivable.

"Jonathan," he said, his mouth dry. "Jonathan Levi Holmes. Mrs Hudson wants to call him Jack."

The name had an unexpected taste, almost familiar but with a tart edge, like an unripe apple in the early days of summer. For the moment, it was all he had. It was enough, for now.

end


End file.
